Which Was the Murderer?

"Which Was the Murderer?" by Robert Barr is a clever and engaging mystery that revolves around a murder case that baffles the authorities. The story follows a group of characters, each with their own secrets and motives, as they try to uncover the truth behind the crime. With a mix of intrigue, wit, and unexpected twists, Barr expertly navigates the complexities of human nature and deception, leading readers on a suspenseful journey filled with surprises. The novel explores themes of guilt, innocence, and the subjective nature of truth, making it a thought-provoking read for fans of classic detective fiction.

• Short story

								
Mrs. John Forder had no premonition of evil. When she heard the hall
clock strike nine she was blithely singing about the house as she
attended to her morning duties, and she little imagined that she was
entering the darkest hour of her life, and that before the clock struck
again overwhelming disaster would have fallen upon her. Her young
husband was working in the garden, as was his habit each morning before
going to his office. She expected him in every moment to make ready for
his departure down town. She heard the click of the front gate, and a
moment later some angry words. Alarmed, she was about to look through
the parted curtains of the bay-window in front when the sharp crack of
a revolver rang out, and she hastened to the door with a vague sinking
fear at her heart. As she flung open the door she saw two things--
first, her husband lying face downwards on the grass motionless, his
right arm doubled under him; second, a man trying frantically to undo
the fastening of the front gate, with a smoking pistol still in his
hand.

Human lives often hang on trivialities. The murderer in his anxiety to
be undisturbed had closed the front gate tightly. The wall was so high
as to shut out observation from the street, but the height that made it
difficult for an outsider to see over it also rendered escape
impossible. If the man had left the gate open he might have got away
unnoticed, but, as it was, Mrs. Forder's screams aroused the
neighbourhood, and before the murderer succeeded in undoing the
fastening, a crowd had collected with a policeman in its centre, and
escape was out of the question. Only one shot had been fired, but at
such close quarters that the bullet went through the body. John Forder
was not dead, but lay on the grass insensible. He was carried into the
house and the family physician summoned. The doctor sent for a
specialist to assist him, and the two men consulted together. To the
distracted woman they were able to give small comfort. The case at best
was a doubtful one. There was some hope of ultimate recovery, but very
little.

Meanwhile the murderer lay in custody, his own fate depending much on
the fate of his victim. If Forder died, bail would be refused; if he
showed signs of recovering, his assailant had a chance for, at least,
temporary liberty. No one in the city, unless it were the wife herself,
was more anxious for Forder's recovery than the man who had shot him.

The crime had its origin in a miserable political quarrel--mere wrangle
about offices. Walter Radnor, the assassin, had 'claims' upon an
office, and, rightly or wrongly, he attributed his defeat to the secret
machinations of John Forder. He doubtless did not intend to murder his
enemy that morning when he left home, but heated words had speedily
followed the meeting, and the revolver was handy in his hip pocket.

Radnor had a strong, political backing, and, even after he stretched
his victim on the grass, he had not expected to be so completely
deserted when the news spread through the city. Life was not then so
well protected as it has since become, and many a man who walked the
streets free had, before that time, shot his victim. But in this case
the code of assassination had been violated. Radnor had shot down an
unarmed man in his own front garden and almost in sight of his wife. He
gave his victim no chance. If Forder had had even an unloaded revolver
in any of his pockets, things would not have looked so black for
Radnor, because his friends could have held that he had fired in self-
defence, as they would doubtless claim that the dying man had been the
first to show a weapon. So Radnor, in the city prison, found that even
the papers of his own political party were against him, and that the
town was horrified at what it considered a cold-blooded crime.

As time went on Radnor and his few friends began once more to hope.
Forder still lingered between life and death. That he would ultimately
die from his wound was regarded as certain, but the law required that a
man should die within a stated time after the assault had been
committed upon him, otherwise the assailant could not be tried for
murder. The limit provided by the law was almost reached and Forder
still lived. Time also worked in Radnor's favour in another direction.
The sharp indignation that had followed the crime had become dulled.
Other startling events occurred which usurped the place held by the
Forder tragedy, and Radnor's friends received more and more
encouragement.

Mrs. Forder nursed her husband assiduously, hoping against hope. They
had been married less than a year, and their love for each other had
increased as time went on. Her devotion to her husband had now become
almost fanatical, and the physicians were afraid to tell her how
utterly hopeless the case was, fearing that if the truth became known
to her, she would break down both mentally and physically. Her hatred
of the man who had wrought this misery was so deep and intense that
once when she spoke of him to her brother, who was a leading lawyer in
the place, he saw, with grave apprehension, the light of insanity in
her eyes. Fearful for a breakdown in health, the physicians insisted
that she should walk for a certain time each day, and as she refused to
go outside of the gate, she took her lonely promenade up and down a
long path in the deserted garden. One day she heard a conversation on
the other side of the wall that startled her.

"That is the house," said a voice, "where Forder lives, who was shot by
Walter Radnor. The murder took place just behind this wall."

"Did it really?" queried a second voice. "I suppose Radnor is rather an
anxious man this week."

"Oh," said the first, "he has doubtless been anxious enough all along."

"True. But still if Forder lives the week out, Radnor will escape the
gallows. If Forder were to die this week it would be rather rough on
his murderer, for his case would come up before Judge Brent, who is
known all over the State as a hanging judge. He has no patience with
crimes growing out of politics, and he is certain to charge dead
against Radnor, and carry the jury with him. I tell you that the man in
jail will be the most joyous person in this city on Sunday morning if
Forder is still alive, and I understand his friends have bail ready,
and that he will be out of jail first thing Monday morning."

The two unseen persons, having now satisfied their curiosity by their
scrutiny of the house, passed on and left Mrs. Forder standing looking
into space, with her nervous hands clasped tightly together.

Coming to herself she walked quickly to the house and sent a messenger
for her brother. He found her pacing up and down the room.

"How is John to-day?" he said.

"Still the same, still the same," was the answer. "It seems to me he is
getting weaker and weaker. He does not recognise me any more."

"What do the doctors say?"

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